As I sit in his office, Dr. K. I begin to think of the bullshit that got me here. Almost every time I come to these exhausting appointments, I break down. Getting help never hurt so much. The innocence taken from me, starting when I was young, could never be given back. Boys with their clammy, but still soft hands because they aren’t even old enough to truly sit before a judge on their own and not old enough for their hands to gain callus from working so hard, but old enough to know that touching little girls is... gross. I tell myself I forgive them. But is it true? Is it possible to really forgive boys who took this much from you to where when you walk in an office that society thinks is for crazy people YOU even get stared down. Bitch yes, I’m crazy. But so are you so look away from me before I use the anger that has boiled in me from tragedies like these. Tragedies that make me start to tear up to even be looked at for longer than a glimpse because I can’t fucking stand someone thinking that they have power over my body again. Tragedies that have made me this paranoid. But still, I get up, I go to work, and I make my living. My parents always fussed at me for half- assing things but what else can you do on mornings when you’ve spent the night fighting off those flashbacks that you have yet to get used to after an entire decade and longer? Sometimes, half- assing is all I have the power to do. My obsessive compulsive disorder says brushing your teeth just long enough for you to have the ability to look at the very person you are absolutely disgusted with. My obsessive compulsive disorder screams that it is not long enough to brush my teeth as long as I can stand to see my own wreckage. But my depression... see, she’s something serious. Somehow, she has that optimistic side when it comes to brushing my teeth. She comforts me, “at least you don’t have morning breath anymore. Tastes a little mintier baby girl.” She has a way of comforting me when I know I cannot put forward much. She has a good way of telling me that at least I did a little. She is the definition of manipulation. She will reel you in making you TRY the positive outlook thing, and then she’ll giggle with Anxiety, and wreck your whole fuckin day. Well... is it depression or the optimistic little girl that was never able to rise up? Does she still want to think happy thoughts to get her out of this abyss? She was so honest and gentle and sweet. By middle school, she became the kid that had to do mandatory anger management counseling. The anger harbored in her... in me, and took control. To this day, that sweet, innocent girl is still there, who has learned how to tame the anger a little more, and continues to stay honest and true. She... I mean.. I, I love endlessly. So I think it is true. I think I have forgiven them. But I have not, and never will, forget them. Forgiveness, for me, was personal. Those boys have not been seen since before I hit double digits, so what would they even gain from MY forgiveness? It was and still is, all for me. I forgive them so that I can forgive myself because in this mentality bestowed upon me... I blame myself. This is reality. No matter how many people say it’s not my fault or I could not control it, my mind will tell me that somehow my young, tiny, weak body could have done more. And I know, if the world ended today...it would be my fault.